Thème et Variations sur la Tristesse
by M'selle de Paris
Summary: Erik sees and hears young Christine for the first time, and the immortal bond is formed. Sort of Kay, sort of Leroux, probably a oneshot.


_Just a short little note/introduction: when I started writing this, I'd expected it to be a lot shorter, and the direction it ended up in wasn't where I thought it was going, really- I actually thought this would be a little more light-hearted! But, as we all know, our muses are unpredictable and we have no choice but to follow where they lead._

_This has a lot of elements of Susan Kay's novel _Phantom_, but I'm writing the scene in which Erik first hears/meets Christine completely differently. There are also a couple Leroux references- you'll see. Overall, I'm pleased with how this turned out...hope you all like it too; review and let me know!_

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I had been feeling particularly sour for days, weeks, perhaps even months. All my life I'd had a naturally pessimistic disposition, of course, but my negative outlook had reached an acute point where absolutely everything bored and sickened me- even…even music. Yes, music was beginning to lose its appeal.

My heart immediately burned in shame from such a thought. Perhaps I spoke too rashly: it wasn't exactly _music itself_ that bored me, but those performing it. It had been far too long since I last heard a talented enough musician who peaked my interest. I was even beginning to feel sympathetic towards Reyer, the poor man condemned to conducting the painfully mediocre orchestra and singers who currently resided at the Opera Populaire.

However, aside from the Giry woman, whom I always took great pains to remain civil towards, I had no pity for anyone else. I took my frustration out principally on Lefèvre, who, aside from being neither helpful, amusing, or attractive, was completely incapable of decently casting an opera. Our relations reached the point where I was sure the next little fright he received from me would be the last and would drive him right out of the building. God only knows why he put up with it for as long as he did.

But, to my enormous surprise and even larger relief, there came a peculiar day that changed my drab, dull days at the opera (though I didn't know then exactly how drastically so)…

I remember distinctly the cold, gray weather that hung over Paris that day; the rain clouds seeming to concentrate their efforts over the opera house in particular. I'd taken lately to escaping to the very highest point on the roof, where the golden statues looked down from their piece of paradise to the usually busy and buzzing streets below. That day, though, the only people who were out were in carriages, and even so there were very few of them.

I'd taken to sitting between two of my favorite statues, both the figures of angels, and simply watching their faces as though they might at any moment blink their eyes and turn their heads and take flight on their elegant, powerful wings. So far I had never caught them in the act. It puzzled me, when I sat up there in a drowsy state of mind: they seemed to come alive in the sunshine; gleaming and glittering in the morning, glowing in the evening. However, that day, I only saw them cry; watching their raindrop-tears leave a shimmering trail down their beautifully sculpted cheeks as the drops slid slowly down. I watched, strangely fascinated, as though I were once again a little boy discovering the odd miracles of light and mirrors…

The faint sound of the steady and even _clip-clopp_ing of horses' hooves on the paved street below broke my trance: so few were the carriages on the street this afternoon that each one seemed a surprise. I heard it round the corner and the noise grew louder before pausing in front of the opera.

Curious, I leaned over the side of the building, putting my trust in an angel to hold me, just enough to glimpse the carriage as its contents climbed out. I couldn't see perfectly, due to the altitude from which I watched, but I saw that one of the passengers was a woman and the other a child- a little girl.

Ordinarily I wouldn't have cared very much, but on my life I could not figure out why they were here. There was no performance this evening, and it was far too early for one even if it were playing, anyways. Even so, I would have dismissed the matter from my thoughts immediately had sheer boredom not set it and driven me back inside and downstairs to the foyer where they had entered.

I concealed myself in one of the passages I myself had built, leading into a column that reached up to the top of the high ceiling and from which I could look down on and listen to the little gathering below.

"…death of her father," the woman was saying.

It was Mme. Giry, I saw, to my slight surprise. I hadn't known she'd gone out that morning. With her stood Lefèvre, Reyer, and the little girl, whom I'd never seen before in my life. She was a sweet-looking girl; nothing out of the ordinary, but with soft, warm features and unusually pretty eyes. She had long brown hair that seemed almost to be made of velvet in its dark, rich color. What struck me most was that though she had a seemingly shy disposition and a meek, almost fearful look in her eyes, there was something beautifully friendly and kind in her appearance, in her aura, that made it difficult for me to draw my eyes away from her. Even as she stood trembling, I felt an overwhelming sense of pity and kindness towards her- something I hadn't felt in years, in fact; the feeling took me quite by surprise.

I let my eyes linger for only a moment longer before tuning back into the conversation taking place around her. It was because she was a poor little child, I decided; and I know what it's like to be small and afraid and alone. Oh, I knew all too well…

"Who was her father?" Lefèvre asked, glancing briefly at the girl with careless eyes.

"Charles Daaé. He was a great musician himself."

"Daaé! The violinist; why of course!" Reyer said in surprise, letting out an uncharacteristic laugh. "Marvelous man."

I myself was somewhat surprised. The man had indeed exceptional skill.

"Yes, and as his friend I felt I should respect his wishes: that Christine should take up residence here, and participate in the operas and music. He always wanted her to be involved in music, and decided on this arrangement since I could be here to look after her."

Lefèvre nodded slowly, somewhat doubtfully. Reyer seemed quite interested, though.

"And what does the little _mademoiselle_ do?"

"She sings, monsieur. She has no knowledge of dancing as of yet, but is of the perfect age to begin learning, with my own daughter."

"Ah yes…" Reyer looked hopefully over at Lefèvre. Newcomers were always welcome to Reyer, for there was always a chance that the next voice he heard could be the greatest. However, this was a spark of interest I hadn't seen ignited in him in a long time.

"Daaé, Monsieur Lefèvre! _Daaé_'s daughter!" he whispered. "There is much potential, no?"

Lefèvre sighed, avoiding the eye of the man hissing eagerly into his ear. "We have yet to hear her, of course," he said, for the benefit of both Reyer and the girls.

"Let us do so now, then," Reyer said quickly, beginning to lead the group to the main theater. He walked in a comical mix of hopping and high-stepping, his enthusiasm apparent. Reyer was a unique man indeed: his regular disposition was quite gloomy and serious, sometimes even bitter; but when he had a change of mood, it was always quite drastic.

They ascended the great staircase, turned into another hallway and disappeared from view. I, on the other hand, took yet another passageway in the wall to the great room; upon entering (before the others), I crept up soundlessly to the catwalks and positioned myself there in the shadows. Looking down at the majestic but empty theater, I wondered just what this incident would bring: so far, this was the most unusual thing that had happened in my life in years.

A moment later they arrived, and Mme. Giry brought the young girl- Christine- up onto the stage as Reyer took his place at the piano. Lefèvre took a seat in the audience to watch.

Mme. Giry bent near the girl and whispered something which the girl replied to in a similar undertone, softly enough that I could not hear the words exchanged. Then Giry straightened and went to Reyer, murmuring something to him which he nodded to in response, and began to play.

I realized Giry must have asked the child what song she wanted to sing, and I smiled as the opening notes of _O Lovely Peace_ drifted up to my ears. It seemed somehow fitting for so innocent a child.

But my calm, detached feelings vanished the moment the girl opened her rose-petal lips to sing the first note.

Her voice was by no means spectacularly heart-stopping, and it was indeed a child's voice; but there was an indescribable _purity_ about it that I just couldn't place. Her father had taught her well in music: she had good tone, controlled breathing, and an even vibrato. All in all it was a sweet sound, and that was what Mme. Giry, Lefèvre and Reyer heard, and naturally it pleased them well enough. But, indiscernible to the regular ear was her pure and utter _potential_, and I realized that it was this which had struck me about her voice. At the moment, it was a pretty but regular and rather quiet, powerless voice; and so what gave me hint of its potential was the way the higher notes _just_ began to rustle their wings to soar, but the girl checked them and brought them back to the melody. She had untapped beauty straining at her pale porcelain throat, but she didn't know how to let it out.

Or perhaps she didn't have the courage, or will, to.

As the song came to an end, I noticed a change in her expression: her face was slowly falling and reverting to the sad, downcast way she had worn it when I had first seen her. I had hardly realized it, but as she sang, she had had a look of pure rapture and peacefulness; the face of angels in paintings when they bring good tidings to mere mortals or return to their clouds of paradise. She was a pretty enough little girl, but looked almost achingly lovely when she sang.

_Holy angel, in Heaven blessed…my spirit longs with thee to rest!_

Reyer smiled at her and both he and Lefèvre congratulated her cordially. After speaking a moment with Mme. Giry, they agreed she could be trained for the chorus of the Opera.

Christine smiled, but it was a lifeless smile; devoid of any pleasure. It broke my heart to see this little girl- whom I barely knew at all- live her life detached of emotion…quite the way I had become accustomed to living.

I couldn't let this girl drown as I had. It didn't matter that I didn't know her; it didn't matter that she could never know _me_- but I had to help her, I had to do something…

Once more I thought of her voice. One can tell a lot from the way people create and handle music, especially with voice: she clearly had a passion for it, but lacked the determination to make any more of it than she already had…with her father, presumably.

Immediately I saw the key: her music, her sadness, her voice, _everything_ was directly linked to the death of her father. He was clearly the one who had sparked the passion I had seen in her eyes as she sang…now what she needed was someone to continue to guide her, to tend the spark so that it grew into an eternal flame.

_Fate links thee to me for ever and a day!_

I was her; she was me; in an alternate version of sadness. It was for this reason that I knew that, from then on, I would never be able to sever this connection. I couldn't walk away from this painting of grief and agony that was Christine…and I couldn't let this opportunity, this golden window, slip away. The poor angel; little did she know that this was the day that her life of sadness would change…I knew not how, but I would do whatever it took to let her live again.

* * *

_The song, "O Lovely Peace", is from "Judas Maccabaeus" by George Friedrick Handel. (It's a beautiful song; I actually recommend it to classical singers/listeners.) The two quotes (in italics) are from "Faust" and "Romeo and Juliet", respectively, and are featured in Leroux's novel _The Phantom of the Opera


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